


the cut that bleeds

by rowenabane



Series: re:visited [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Castles, Dracula Influence/References, Emotional Manipulation, Family, Isolation, M/M, Mark and Mina are Siblings, Mutilation, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Violence, but its only mentioned once, just assume everyone is having a bad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenabane/pseuds/rowenabane
Summary: Johnny raises an eyebrow. “It is a wonder what a little sunlight inspires men to do.”
Relationships: Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: re:visited [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678837
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	the cut that bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> I have had the worst case of writer's block in my LIFE so this is the one thing that I have finally been able to write... surprise! I'm on my usual idiocy! Thanks for reading!
> 
> note: this work is, quite obviously, based off of the original Dracula by Bram Stoker. My opinions on Count Dracula are that he was Kinda Mean! Sure hope this clears up any confusion xoxox

_ “Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are, that some people see things that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplated by men's eyes, because they know, or think they know, some things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all, and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain.” _

_ MARK LEE’S JOURNAL (written in shorthand) _

_ 3 May. I have arrived in the Carpathian mountains and simply cannot describe the sight. It is wonderful! The people here are so very nice, and the air is fresh, unlike back home. I should hope that one day I can bring Mina here—I am sure she would love it. _

_ I will be meeting with the Count tomorrow at his estate in the mountains. I leave tonight, and hopefully I will be home sooner rather than later. Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality! It is just that Transylvania is not England, and I am weary of travel. _

_ I miss home already. Unbelievable! Mina would say that I am much too sentimental. _

_... _

The carriage ride from the sweet village to the heart of the mountains is a long one, the villagers tell Mark. It is perilous, too— one woman, a cheerful mother with two children constantly pulling at her skirts, tells him in broken English that wolves prowl the peaks. She then hands him a bowl of soup and tells him to eat, eat, you are too thin!

Mark looks out the window and sees the mountains rising high in the distance, snow-covered and utterly pristine, and eats his soup. He has never traveled this far out of England, and the feeling of so much distance puts him in a state of unease. He’ll be back soon, surely—he just has these documents to deliver, and then signatures to obtain, and then he can be on his way. 

He looks over the mountains and pulls a letter out of his coat pocket, the paper slightly wrinkled, It is relatively brief in nature—a short note of recommendation from his mentor at the law firm assuring the Count Dracula of Transylvania that he can be trusted with these important papers. Simple and efficient, as Mark wishes most things were.

He refolds the letter and slips it back in his coat, watching the two children play with wooden blocks in the corner. One of them, a little girl, topples the tower of blocks over onto her brother with a mischievous smile. Mark turns away, faintly touched by a comfortable happiness. She reminds him of Mina.

He pulls his watch from his coat pocket—it is just after noon. He does not leave until this evening. 

They are truly a beautiful sight, those mountains—pristine and untouchable, painted right against the sky. He gets the sense that he would not admire them as much up close.

…

His carriage arrives at dusk, just as the sun is casting its dying rays onto the tips of the mountains in the distance. He takes his one bag with him, but just as he is stepping into the carriage he feels a tug on the edge of his coat. He turns to see a small, inquisitive face, framed by blond hair.

The little girl reaches up and hands him something, a small carved object that Mark does not get the chance to admire before the girl runs back to her mother and buries her face in her skirts.

“Be careful, Herr Englishman,” the mother says. She says nothing more.

Mark nods at her, closing the carriage door behind him. He opens his hand, and finds that the object the little girl handed him is none other than a small, wooden cross.

…

The carriage stops in the middle of the winding road, and the driver motions at him to get out.

“But, sir,” Mark stammers. “This is the middle of nowhere.”

“It is as far as I go,” the driver says. He spits on the ground. “The  _ Count _ will send one of his men for you.”

And with that he turns and races back the way he came, leaving Mark in a cloud of dust with his hand raised as if he could stop him. 

The night is like a cloak with the way it presses on him. He can feel how high the mountain is in the way his ears feel filled with water, everything muted around him. There is still snow dredged among the rock and trees, and as Mark stands in the middle of what is virtually nowhere he hears distant howls. He pulls his coat tighter around him.

Hooves echo in the distance and a black carriage rolls toward him, two black horses staring down at him. The driver of this carriage is dressed all in black, his hat pulled low over his face. He says nothing as he takes Mark’s bag and opens the door for him to get in. A deep sense of foreboding chills Mark’s bones but he steps inside anyway, wolves howling in the distance.

The moon watches them like a giant, round eye in the black sky. The wolves stop howling, as if in reverence to a god only they know, one that eludes Mark’s too human senses.

…

The memory of seeing the Count’s castle for the first time is one he will both treasure and then bury, both at times not too distant from each other. For now, though, it leaves him in a state of awe.

The castle rises out of the mountain, parts of it carved from solid stone at the base. The night is dark but Mark can still make out the jagged spires against the sky, the looming towers and walkways. Not a single light glows form any of the windows, and the entire structure seems to absorb the moonlight, engulfing it in an even harsher darkness. It is a stunning sight, dazzling in its extremes.

The doors open as if of their own accord, the driver vanishing along some other pathway, and Mark enters the castle. The doors close behind him, echoing as if with their own voice.

He is alone. 

...

_ MARK LEE’S JOURNAL _

_ 3 May. Later. I have arrived but the Count is not yet here...it certainly is a beautiful castle, but it seems so lonely. There is a strange feeling to it.  _

_ The ride was strange, but at least I am here safe. There is food laid out here, and a note saying it for me, so I guess I’ll eat and wait for the Count. The fire is very nice and warm. _

_ An observation: it is very, very dark in here. _

...

The Count is an aging man of perhaps 50 or 60, rail-thin but smiling. He wears a heavy coat around his shoulders, the cut of it enhancing his long limbs. He smiles at Mark, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Welcome!” The Count says, his voice echoing all the way up to the stone ceiling. His accent is layered over the words, making them difficult to distinguish. “I am so glad to finally meet the man in charge of my future! Mark Lee, is it not?”

Mark nods and stands, extending his hand. “I am pleased to meet with you, Count.”

“Please,” the Count says. His gray hair sparkles under the lamplight, but his eyes have a glimmering youth to them, something mischievous and spontaneous. He grabs Mark’s hand, his fingers strong. “I am to live in England. Call me Johnny.”

Mark pauses, hand stilling. “Johnny?”

“An English name, is it not?” His pronunciation of the name is thickly accented, but he says it with such a smile that Mark cannot help but smile back. “It is what I strive to be: a perfect Englishman. I have much to learn.”

“The name suits you,” Mark says, smiling reassuringly. He slides some papers over to the count. “Now, you’ll need to sign these, along with some other paperwork, and then everything should be set. Do you have any questions?”

The Count, or rather, Johnny, looks over the paperwork. He looks at Mark. “Oh, I have many! But they are too numerous to burden with you in a single night or day. I insist you stay and teach me everything you know of England. Everything!”

Mark stares, taken aback by Johnny’s sudden enthusiasm. The Count’s eyes burn with obsession, a desire for knowledge.

The thought of staying any longer than he has to makes him uncomfortable, but he does not know what to do. Insult his host? Insist he has other places to see, other things to do?

“How long would you have me stay?” Mark asks politely, plastering a smile onto his face.

Johnny thinks for a moment, pressing a finger to his chin. “At least a month,” he finally says. “That should be plenty of time for you to teach me your language and customs. I will be forever indebted to you for such assistance!”

“Your English is excellent, surely there’s no need—”

Johnny raises a hand. “Nonsense! There is always more to learn. And you,” Johnny smiles. “Are a most capable teacher.”

“Oh, well, I…” Mark pulls at his sleeve. He sighs inwardly. “I am glad to assist in any way.”

“Excellent!” Johnny stands and rubs his hands together, moving with an energy that does not fit his age. “I have a room prepared for you. I hope you will be comfortable.”

Mark stands with empty hands. He gave his bag to the carriage driver hours ago. “Thank you.”

Johnny nods graciously and grabs a hanging lamp. He leads Mark up one of the sets of stairs that flank the main room, his hand whispering dryly over the carved wood. Mark follows, a little unsure, not sure how much space his body should take up in the shadows that cover the floor.

“Here,” Johnny says, unlocking a large wooden door. “I hope this suits your needs.”

He pushes the door open and motions Mark inside. The room is large and beautiful, the bed and furniture all carved by hand out of the finest wood. A fireplace rages across from the bed, and the drapes and sheets are all fine as silk.

His bag rests at the foot of the bed. As he goes to retrieve it he notices a faint staleness about the air, as if no one has breathed here in a long, long time. A faint coating of dust lingers on the draperies and sheets, even if most of it has been swept off the furniture.

“My staff are generally...unavailable, so please let me know if you need anything,” Johnny says amiably as Mark pulls things out of his bag. 

Mark places a small mirror on the dresser by the wall and Johnny frowns at it. Mark turns to grab something else and he hears a crash from behind him. The pieces of the mirror are all on the floor, shards reflecting the ceiling.

“Oh, I do apologize,” Johnny says. “These hands are not as careful as they used to be. Please, forgive me.”

“It's nothing,” Mark says, brushing the glass onto a piece of paper with his hands. “Would you happen to have a mirror that I could use, then?”

“Oh no,” Johnny says cheerily. “Such baubles...gateways to vanity, all of them.”

Mark simply stares at him, sweeping the glass. He feels a stab of pain and looks down at his finger, hissing. The tip of his thumb is blossoming with blood.

“My dear,” Johnny says softly, leaning forward. “How unfortunate.”

“It’ll be fine,” Mark says, sticking his thumb in his mouth to siphon off the blood. It leaves a salty, metallic taste.

Johnny's face has gone pale, his mouth parted, his eyes wide. He watches Mark with an animal’s interest, and for a second Mark feels the need to step away from what he is sure is some type of predatory animal. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wraps it around his finger. 

Johnny straightens and smiles, but there is something in that simple expression that seems strained and ghastly. “Sleep well, Mark. There is much to do.”

He vanishes out of the doorway and into the darkness leaving the door open behind him. The black square of darkness just beyond his room gives Mark chills, and as he goes to close it he feels the uncanny sensation of being watched. His skin prickles with the feeling, and he closes the door firmly.

He tries to finish unpacking, but a deep heaviness settles within him, drawing his eyelids down. The fire is warm and inviting, and as Mark lies down to go to sleep he thinks of nothing but the weariness in his bones and the opportunities that tomorrow will hopefully bring.

A strange peace. A strange peace indeed.

…

By the time Mark wakes it is already past noon. It stuns him that he would have slept so long, especially in a strange place. He rushes to get dressed and washed and opens his door, expecting to see Johnny upset with him for being so late. 

He walks down the stone stairs, buttoning his shirt, and finds that there is nobody anywhere. In fact, the castle is unnaturally dark—he did not notice it in the heavy darkness of the night, but there are no windows here. The only light comes from the massive fireplace at the end of the room, the flames cracking like whips in the air.

There is a plate and cup on the table, along with a pitcher of water and a folded piece of paper. Mark picks up the paper first, unfolding it and squinting to read the words.

_ I have to be absent. Do not wait for me!  _

_ —J _

There is a cold breakfast on the plate, toast and jam and butter. Mark fills the cup with water and drinks it slowly, looking around the room.

There are several doorways, each branching into darkness, each exactly the same. He walks up to one and places his hand on it, feeling how cold the carved stone is beneath his palm. Wood is inlaid around it in looping patterns, arrows and swords and leaves.

It is through this doorway that Mark enters, down a short hall and into a large, towering room. The ceiling arches up high above his head, light shining feebly through a single curtained window that Mark stands beneath. He reaches out, feeling the thick velvet of the curtain, and pulls it sharply to the side. A cloud of dust is buoyed into the air, caught in the sudden rays of sunlight.

A library. Mark turns slowly, gazing up at the towering shelves, the hundreds of dusty spines. He is in a library.

He reaches out to run his hands over the spines of books that seem older than he is, their dark green covers rough to the touch and coated with dust. He pulls one out and slowly opens it, hearing the spine strain from years of disuse. The pages are covered with letters in a language he does not speak, but that does not matter. The weight of the book, the  _ smell _ —he feels like he is at home in his study, even though his small shelf of books could never hope to capture half the grandeur this library does.

He gently replaces the book, this time pulling out one with a dark blue cover. The writing on the spine is in English, and he knows as soon as he opens it what it is: a book of English law. A welcome friend. 

He carries it to a desk near the end of the shelf, gently setting it down. It is one of the newer volumes among the ancient books filling the library, but it's pages are creased and marked in a language Mark does not understand. The letters are cramped in the margins along each page, ink splattered along the edges. Mark tilts the book trying to better see the words.

“I see you’ve found my library,” a voice says from behind him. “I’m glad.”

Mark turns hurriedly, almost dropping the book. “It’s very impressive,” he admits. “I’ve never seen a library so big.”

Johnny glides past him, smiling. He grabs a book off the shelf, the red cover dark against his pale skin. Mark frowns slightly, wondering if it is just the light or if Johnny’s hair is darker than it was yesterday.

“Books are my only companions in this place,” he says, idly flipping through the book. “They have been faithful friends.” He points at the law book in Mark’s hand. “That one, especially. I have been trying to learn. Passes the time.”

“You are a very dedicated student,” Mark says. “All those notes.”

“I have quite a bit of time on my hands.” Johnny grins wryly. “I have some questions. Would you indulge me over a cup of wine?”

“Oh, of course,” Mark stammers. He puts the book back on the shelf and follows Johnny back to the main room, He pauses in the doorway, staring at the inlaid wood design. There is something about it that catches the eye and does not let it go, as if it is rippling like an ocean.

“What is it?”

“This pattern,” Mark murmurs. “It is very beautiful.”

"Here," Johnny says. He gently guides Mark's hand into the wood carvings of the doorway. "You must  _ feel _ it to appreciate it."

Mark's fingers tingle with the way Johnny's hand slides over his, strong and calloused but gentle. Mark's own hands are soft from too much paperwork and not enough yard work, and he remembers how Mina always tells him he will have baby hands no matter how old he is.

Mark blinks, fingers stilling over the wood design. Johnny gives him a small, sharp smile.

“Do you feel it now?” Johnny asks. “The care? The wood still lives after it has died.”

Mark nods slowly, head fuzzy. Johnny lets go of his hand and turns toward the table. There are two glasses resting there, alongside a bottle of dark red liquid.

Mark watches Johnny uncork the bottle and pour two glasses of wine, his hands steady and sure. His skin seems to linger on the memory of those hands, even as he tries to chase it away.

“I desire to learn more about my guest,” Johnny says brightly. “Where do you live?”

“London,” Mark answers, accepting the glass with trembling fingers. 

“Is it nice?”

Mark laughs quietly to himself. “It’s okay. Crowded, mostly. Noisy. There are lots of people.”

“Do you live alone?” Johnny asks, leaning forward slightly. “I would assume one like yourself would have, oh, a spouse or lover to bide time with.” 

Mark chokes on the wine, coughing into his fist. “Me? Oh, no, I—I just live with my sister, that's all.”

Johnny raises a bemused eyebrow. “There’s no one? Ah, but you are young and handsome. Surely…?”

Mark shakes his head frantically. “I haven’t got the—the time, for such things. Between working at the law firm and taking care of my sister I really don’t get out much.”

“A shame,” Johnny says, giving him a long, unreadable look. He sips his wine carefully.

There is a long pause, Mark staring down into his cup of wine. He doesn't quite like the taste, that bittersweet cloudiness and burn. It tastes faintly of grapes, but the liquid is thick and the scent cloying.

“What is your sister’s name? Is she younger than you?”

Mark thinks for a moment. Why does he get the feeling that he is being interrogated, prodded for weakness? He dismisses the thought as paranoia. Maybe he's just not used to interacting with others.

“Her name is Mina. She’s several years younger than I am.”

“Mark and Mina,” Johnny says thoughtfully. “How cute.”

Mark mulls over the statement when Johnny suddenly changes the subject, asking about land ownership laws—how long one can own land, how many advisors one can have, laws regarding privacy and use. Mark answers them all, and Johnny gives him a pleased grin.

Time seems to be passing too fast and before he realizes it midnight arrives. 

“You must be tired,” Johnny says. “Rest. I will be gone tomorrow as well, so feel free to do as you wish.”

Mark nods respectfully and waits until Johnny stands before heading up the stairs to his room. He looks over the stair railing and sees Johnny gathering the glasses, draining the remainder of wine from Mark’s glass.

The bed Mark sleeps in at night is cold, no matter how the fire rages in the fireplace. It leaves him with a chill that soaks deep into his bones.

He drifts off to sleep without consciously realizing that he never once saw Johnny stand in the sunlight.

...

Johnny smiles at him, face unlined, watching Mark eat. There is a feral type of interest in the small act, one that makes Mark deeply uncomfortable. He wonders if it is the light or if Johnny is slowly, surely, becoming younger.

“What are you thinking, dear Mark?”

“Nothing,” Mark replies. He notices that Johnny never eats at his end of the table. 

Odd.

…

_ You have to let me in, _ a quiet voice whispers. _ You have to let me in, dear Mark. _

He is running through a long, dark hallway. 

He doesn’t know how he got here, or where he’s going. Everything looks the same in the darkness, the corridor filled with dark, slumped figures. He doesn’t stop to examine them, and a floating, eerie voice follows him down the dark hall. It is somehow familiar, but too distorted to understand.

Something is moving behind him. Is it a person? Is it his own shadow? Is he being paranoid? Is he—

Something hits his shoulder and he jolts awake, a dry shout dying on his tongue. There is no dark corridor, no shadowy figures. He had simply hit his shoulder on the headboard by twisting in his sleep. Strange, but not terribly unusual. He swallows, his mouth unfathomably dry.

It does not seem like morning yet. He pulls his blanket tightly around his shoulders and lies in the dark, willing his heart to slow. He slowly sinks back into the comfort of sleep, unaware of the solid shadow in the darkness around him.

…

_ Dear Mark, _

_ Mark! How is everything? You have to tell me how things are going in Transylvania; I’ve been waiting to hear from you all week! Lia and I have been sending plenty of time together, but she doesn’t hold a candle to your wonderfully plain, boring personality. _

_ Write back soon! I miss you! _

_ Your Dearest Sister, _

_ Mina _

…

There are hundreds of hallways in this castle, hundreds of rooms and stairways, but Mark has not explored even half of them. There is little else to do in this stone mausoleum Johnny calls home. He wonders how Johnny passes the time here by himself, all alone, no companions or friends. 

The hallways remain dark even during the day. Few windows adorn the halls, and the ones that do are slitlike, rectangular and uneven. The window in his room is made of thick glass, surrounded by wood, but these other windows possess none of that care. They seem to have been punched through the walls.

Mark takes a lamp and wanders through the empty halls, his footsteps echoing. He has not seen a single soul other than Johnny since he arrived, but he still hopes that he is not wholly alone.

The light from the lamp mixes with the weak sunlight in front of him, pooling along a set of winding stone stairs. He has never seen them before.

A moment passes. He steps forward, following the curve of the stairs wherever they lead him with their upward spiral.

…

_ MARK LEE’S JOURNAL _

_ 7 May. I found the oddest thing today—a staircase that leads nowhere! I walked for several minutes, but I must have been climbing into a tower. The stairs ended at a solid rock wall! _

_ This castle is eerie...I believe it is actively hiding things from me. What a wild thought! Mina would laugh. _

_ The Count (Johnny, he likes to be called Johnny) is very persistent. I sometimes wonder if it is just custom here to be especially...curious, about guests and strangers. It does not matter, though. A couple more weeks, and I will be home again. _

…

They are sitting in the library tonight, the night chill actively chased away by a fire that burns at the far end of the room.

“Men here live so recklessly,” Johnny says. There seems to be a glow on his skin, something unnaturally beautiful and harsh. “It is the nature of these mountain people.”

“They do not seem so reckless to me,” Mark says. The glass of wine that Johnny handed him earlier sits untouched on the table beside his chair. “They are very kind, earnest people.”

“You are too gullible,” Johnny says lightly. “These people place all their faith in superstition. A spell to keep the devil away, this herb or that to ward off evil.” He swirls his glass. “It is an old, antiquated way to live.” 

Mark thinks about the small wooden cross the girl in town gave him. Where did he put it? It must be around here somewhere.

“And how do you live, dear Mark?” Johnny’s gaze is pointed. He seems to want a very specific answer, but Mark does not know what it is. “What rules you?”

“I live by the law,” Mark says. “As all people should.”

“And how does your law punish those that do not?” Johnny asks, stirring his drink with his finger. “Harshly?”

“Fairly.” Mark folds his hands in front of him. “The punishment will seek to match the severity of the crime.”

“How idealistic you Englishmen are,” Johnny says, licking wine off his finger. The sight makes Mark's mouth go dry.

“That is the way a proper society should function,” Mark continues. “It would not be right to punish a person with death for a small offense. It would be cruel.”

“Death is not cruel,” Johnny says, leveling Mark with his fiery gaze. “In fact, it is the kindest being one could hope to greet.”

“You don’t fear death?” Mark asks. Johnny throws his head back, mouth open in a smile, exhaling as if he intends to laugh.

“To me, Death is a long-time companion that knows when they are welcome,” he says. “Do you fear death, dear Mark?”

Silence. “Yes,” he says quietly. “As many people do.”

Johnny gives him a liquid crystal smile. “Don’t. It does not deserve to take one such as yourself.”

Mark does not know what he means by the statement, and something tells him it is not safe to ask.

…

The stairway is still there the next day. Mark stands at the bottom and contemplates it, wondering if there is any purpose in going back up.

Well, he figures. There is nothing better to do. 

The wall at the top of the stairs is completely solid, and Mark stares at it. There is no sunlight in the cramped corridor, so Mark squints through the lamplight and the cracked stone. He raps on the stone with his knuckles then presses his ear to the wall, wondering if he can hear anything from the other side. 

Could it be a secret door? Mark hits it again, this time closer to the floor. He kicks it with his foot. Nothing happens.

Mark sighs, pressing his forehead against the door. Something clicks under his weight and he frowns as the wall shifts downward.

A door, Mark realizes, suddenly giddy. There’s a door behind the wall, a small, barred window built into the wood. He stands on his toes to look through it into the small tower room beyond.

There is a girl in the room, surrounded by wooden crates. Her back is turned to him, her eyes fixed on something outside the window. Her skirt is the dark green of a forest, the hem frayed, her dark hair unbound and falling around her shoulders in waves.

Mark pushes the door open and it creaks beneath his palm. The girl turns and her eyes widen when she sees him, her red mouth opening in a perfect caricature of surprise.

“I’m sorry,” Mark stammers, backing out of the room. “I didn’t realize the Count had any other visitors—”

The girl rushes towards him, grabbing his chin. She looks him over, turning his head from side to side.

“Who are you?” she snaps, her eyes gleaming. “Where did you come from?”

“I work for the Count.” Mark gasps as the girl tilts his head back. “I’m here on business, I’m from England—”

“He has not gotten you yet,” the girl says, letting go of his jaw. “There is still time.”

“What?”

The girl stares at him incredulously, her irises glittering like stars. She is beautiful but wild, desperate like a vine that has been untrimmed and left to grow however it pleases, even as it doubles back and chokes itself.

“You need to get out of here,” the girl says, taking her skirt up with one hand and grabbing Mark’s wrist with the other. “Hurry, come with me.”

“Wait,” Mark says, planting his feet on the floor. “Where are you taking me?”

“There are tunnels that will lead you out towards the direction of the town,” she says. “You must dress warmly, and walk quickly but not too quickly, or you’ll tire yourself out. It is about a day’s journey walking.”

She drops Mark’s wrist and grabs a heavy blanket off of a crate, hurriedly wrapping it around Mark’s shoulders. “Do you have a coat? Let me see your shoes.”

Mark nods and the girl kneels to look at his shoes. “These won’t do. There is still snow on the ground, your feet will sink.”

She looks around the room, cracking open another crate. She shakes her head and then rips off two pieces of wood. She is unbelievably strong.

“Use these,” she says, thrusting the wood towards him. “If you tie one around each foot your feet will not sink into the ground. Do you understand me?”

Mark nods slowly, looking at her. She grabs his wrist again.

“You do not understand me,” she says. “You must leave as  _ soon _ as  _ possible _ .”

Mark pulls the blanket tighter around him. “Why? Who are you?”

“It does not matter who I am,” the girl says. “What matters is that once it begins snowing again you will be trapped here indefinitely. Listen: the Count is not a nice man. He will hurt you.”

“But he’s been so polite,” Mark says. He is still clutching the wood planks to his chest. Something like an alarm goes off in the back of his head. “I don’t see how—”

The girl curses, muttering to herself in some unknown language. “You fool boy. Would you walk into a den of snakes and then compliment them on their courtesy? They are still snakes. You are still in  _ danger. _ ”

“Well then what are you doing here?” Mark asks angrily. “That seems rather hypocritical to me.”

“It is too late for me,” the girl says. She tears open another crate and this time snakes hiss from inside. She plunges her hand into the writhing mass of scales inside the crate, not even flinching, and pulls out a woolen hat and scarf. A snake remains coiled in the hat, hissing as she dumps it out. She shoves the hat on his head. “But not for you.”

“What’s your name?” Mark asks, gentler this time. The girl wraps the scarf around his neck, expression softening. 

“I used to be called Chungha,” she says. “But that was a long, long time ago.”

“Do you know Johnny?” Mark asks. The scarf scratches his skin and he tugs it a little looser. Chungha scowls and tightens it again. 

“Of course I know that  _ diavol _ ,” she says. She grumbles unhappily in another language. “I wish I did not.”

She spins him around towards the door. “Hurry. Let’s grab your coat before the Count finds that you are up to something.”

She takes him down the maze of hallways, her footsteps sure as she races down countless flights of stairs and around endless corners. She stops at the door to Mark’s room, throwing it open. 

Mark grabs his coat, throwing it on. He begins to grab his briefcase but Chnugha shakes her head and pulls it from his hands. 

“Take only what you need,” she says urgently. “Hurry.”

Mark buttons up his coat and grabs the small picture of Mina resting on the nightstand. He looks at it for a moment before stuffing it in his coat pocket. He throws the blanket back around his shoulders and grabs the wood planks again, following Chungha as she races down the stairs once again.

The turning hallways are dizzying. The coat he is wearing traps heat against his skin, and Mark can feel himself beginning to sweat.

Lower. Lower and lower and lower they go, until Mark can no longer see any semblance of a window or door. There are no torches or lamps here, and as they rush through the cramped, narrow hallways, Mark squeezes Chungha’s hand in his own. She gently squeezes back.

“Through here,” Chungha says, pulling the massive deadbolt on a small, wooden door. It is low into the ground, and Mark can tell that he must crouch to get through. “Keep the sun to your back,  _ dragul meu _ , and when night comes hide where you can see no moonlight.” She gives him one last look, gaze lingering. “Be safe, and may we never meet again.”

She pushes Mark out the door, into the blazing sunlight and the blinding snow, and closes the door behind him. He does not even get a chance to glimpse her face beyond the shadowy confines of the castle walls, and he is already forgetting her features amidst the bright light. He blinks, looking upwards. He looks back at the door, and then walks quickly away.

The sun is high. He keeps it behind him.

…

Hours pass. Hours pass and Mark finds himself trudging through the snow even as the sun threatens to plummet behind the mountains. The sky grows red, like the finest apples of spring, and Mark feels a sinking sensation in his chest, weighing him down. His feet are cold, even as he uses the boards to stand on the snow. 

Nighttime is coming. Should he find somewhere to rest? To hide, as Chungha had said?

_ Diavol _ . She had called Johnny a  _ diavol _ . Mark wonders what it means, even as he stands amidst the snow and watches the sun set. The sky goes orange, red, blue, black—Mark sees the moon in the sky at the same time he sees the sun cross the horizon, and sighs. He pulls Chungha’s blanket tighter around himself, thinks of her plunging her hand into a pit of snakes. 

“What am I doing,” Mark murmurs to himself, breath fogging up in front of him. “What am I  _ doing _ ?”

He’s an idiot. Why is he out here wandering through the mountains, all on the whim of a woman he had never seen before and did not know? It is a fool’s error, a mistake, and he should’ve known better.

But her eyes...there was something in her eyes that made him believe, even if just for a moment. Some desperation, some plea that she could not convey with words alone.

The moon looms overhead. Where has the time gone? Just moments ago it was struggling over the horizon.

_ Hide, dragul meu. Hide. _

He doesn’t understand. He can’t. His world seems like it is being tossed about in a boat on the ocean, everything he knows being slowly thrown overboard and into the neverending waves. 

Mark digs into his coat pocket, his fingers brushing against a wrinkled piece of paper. He pulls the photograph of Mina out of his pocket, holding it up to the moonlight.

“It is beautiful out here, sis,” he says quietly. “Look at all this snow.”

_ Hide! _

Mark looks around frantically and then ducks behind a rock, tripping over his feet in the snow. He pulls the boards off his feet, throwing them behind the rocks. His entire body sinks down into the snow, a cold and drafty embrace.

He closes his eyes, chest heaving, and hears growling from the other side of the rocks. It starts as a low rumble, growing until he can feel it vibrating in his chest.

Mark opens his eyes and looks up. A wolf, larger than any he has seen or imagined in his life, stares down at him, its paws balanced on the rock above his head. It stares down at him with uncanny yellow eyes, peering through him, not just at him.

Mark digs his feet into the snow, trying to gain purchase so that he can run. Run where he does not know. He would imagine that the wolf knows these lands much better than he does.

The wolf snaps at him, and then howls up into the sky. The sound rings clear through the night, as high and bright as a bell. Mark hears another wolf howl, and then another, each one echoing after the last. He scrambles to his feet and stumbles through the snow, feet sinking further with every step.

“Please,” Mark cries out, even as he hears the wolves take chase behind him. “Please!”

His foot slips in the snow and he stumbles down, the flat ground giving way to a steady slope. He hits the snow and keeps falling, hands scrambling to find something to hold onto, to stop his hurried, painful descent.

His back hits a rock and he cries out, dizzy. He struggles to stand, his back aching.

The wolves are staring at him from the top of the hill, not moving, not howling, just watching. The wolf in front lets out a low whine, lowering its head. 

Mark feels his heart in his throat as a shadow covers him, long and man-shaped but just barely so. He turns.

“My dear Mark,” Johnny says, frowning. “What are you doing out here?”

Mark opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say. “I was...I was going for a walk.”

“For six hours?” Johnny raises an eyebrow. “It is a wonder what a little sunlight inspires men to do.” He looks up at the wolves on the hill and makes a shooing gesture, waving his hand until the wolves retreat, yipping as they vanish. Johnny leans down, offering Mark his hand. “It is dangerous at night. You should not be out.”

“I—” Mark stares at Johnny. “I understand.”

Johnny places a hand on his shoulder and guides him towards the carriage waiting amidst the rocks. He opens the door and ushers Mark inside, closing the door behind him.

“Well, Johnny says, smiling as he rests an arm on the window. “A few more hours and you would have been in town. Funny, isn’t it?”

Mark looks towards his footprints in the snow and Johnny laughs. The carriage begins to move and all Mark can do is watch the path to freedom disappear behind him.

…

“I understand.” Johnny gives Mark a bemused smile from where he is standing by the fireplace, arm, resting on the mantle. “Isolation like this makes men do strange things.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark stammers. “It was so rude of me to walk out like that, I don’t even know what I was doing—”

Johnny raises a hand. “You do not need to apologize. You are not used to being so remote. I have grown used to it, but I cannot fault you for a temporary loss of reason.” 

Mark feels an anxious relief in his chest, the knot there slowly undoing itself. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Johnny’s eyes look hungry.

…

A knocking at the door. A soft, insistent whisper.

_ You have to let me in. You have to let me in, dear Mark. _

Mark sits up in bed, peering at the door. Everything seems murky at the edges, swirling around him. The room seems to be nothing more than a wisp of shadow, crystallizing into erratic, unholy shapes.

Mark stares at the door. Should he let them in?

_ You have to let me in. Please, dear Mark. I am very cold. _

Mark is not in bed anymore. He is standing at the door, slowly pulling it open. The knob scalds his hand, and he sees Johnny standing in the doorway, the darkness curling around him like a cloak.

Fragments. Suddenly Johnny's hands are on his shoulders, his mouth at his neck, his shoulder blotting out the starry ceiling. He looks so young, and even though Mark feels a scream lodged in his aching throat he also feels a strange warmth. The sensation is uncommon in this drafty, cold castle.

Johnny licks up the side of his throat and Mark gasps, jolting himself awake. He digs his fingers into his sheets as he blinks the dream away, trying to reject the vivid clarity of Johnny's skin against his. He is alone in this room, as he always is.

Just a dream, Mark tells himself as he rolls over in bed. His body is sore all over, the fragmented nightmare disappearing.  _ Just a dream. _

…

Once again, Johnny is out on errands. There is no note on the table, but he is not anywhere to be found. There is food on the main table, cold toast and jam, and he tiredly works his way through a piece of toast as he heads to the library.

He opens a window in the library, pushing aside the heavy draperies. He pulls a random book off the shelf, the title in a language he does not know, and places it on the table with a low thud. It is a thick book, the brown cover peeling slightly.

Mark flips through the book. He cannot make out a single word, but dark illustrations cover almost every other page. He pauses on an illustration of a man on a hill dressed in armor, holding a severed head triumphantly in his hand. The drawing sends shivers down Mark's spine as he scans the page. 

A history book, then. Mark flips a couple of pages, intending to close the book, but stops, His fingers partially cover an illustration of a man, back arched as he bends over a bed. Mark moves his hand, revealing the man’s snarling face, teeth dripping with some dark liquid. A sleeping woman lies on the bed, her dress depicted in scraggly lines. The man looks almost like an animal, teeth sharp like a wolf’s, and Mark hurriedly closes the book.

More animal than man. Mark shudders as he places the book back and wipes crumbs off his shirt.

Mark suddenly feels exposed, as if something in the library will reach out and grab him. The feeling latches itself upon him, and he finds himself almost walking backward, watching the shadows in the room. He wishes he was not so alone in this big empty castle. How could a man live like this?

His heart aches for his little house with the cramped hallways and hand-embroidered curtains. He wants windows that do not arch, wants a mirror he can see himself in, just to convince himself he is still here.

He heads back to the main room, a sinking paranoia settling into his bones. The day is much too long when he's alone. He pulls his journal out and begins to write, mindlessly.

“What does he do during the day?” Mark murmurs to himself. “Surely, he must go to town...or somewhere else. Right.” Mark bites the end of his pen. “Maybe I’ll ask him to take me with him.”

It would be a welcome respite from this loneliness. He hasn’t received a letter from Mina yet, and wonders if he even gave her the proper address to reach him. He considers writing her one first, and then brushes the notion away. He knows what she’ll say:  _ Mark, don’t you trust me? It's only been a week. I'm not a toddler anymore!  _

She’d be right. She’d be absolutely, unerringly right.

Mark rests his head on the table, the wood smooth against his cheek. The day is much too long.

…

Logic says this: if he goes back to the tower room, he should find Chungha there. It doesn't say that there should be two complete strangers in the room.

That’s what he finds though, as he pushes on the stone wall and watches it descend into the floor. A man and woman are sitting atop the crates, both of them blonde with dark, dark, eyes. They grin at him as he opens the door, both dressed in finery that has become a bit ragged at the edges and hems. They wear red.

“Hello,” Mark says shyly. “I’m looking for—I’m looking for Chungha.”

The man and woman exchange a mischievous look, the woman running her tongue over her teeth. 

“Chungha isn’t here, darling,” the man says, his mouth glossy and red. “Perhaps we can help you instead.”

“Come,” the woman says. Her eyes are ringed in light. “Sit with us, darling.”

“Oh, I'm fine,” Mark says, backing towards the doorway. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”

The woman pouts a little. “Can’t you give us a kiss before you go? Just one?”

“We can share it,” the man says, grinning. Mark’s back hits the doorframe. Is Johnny in the habit of housing the insane?

“I’m sorry, I really should be going—”

The woman rushes forward, grabbing his throat. She looks at him inquisitively for a moment before sneering and letting him go.

“He is one of the Count’s men,” she says unhappily, turning to her partner. “No good.”

She sits back on top of one of the crates, large enough for a child to stand in. He doesn’t allow himself to wonder what’s inside.

The man looks at him and laughs cruelly. “Do you sleep well at night, darling?”

Mark doesn’t answer. He rushes out the door and slams it shut behind him, running down the stairs. He can hear mocking laughter from high above him, the sound high and wild.   


_ Do you sleep well at night? _

…

“Was learning law difficult?”

“Oh, not really,” Mark says distractedly, turning a folded piece of paper between his hands. There is nothing written on it, the paper as pure and clean as snow. “It was a lot of work, more tedious than difficult.”

“Ah, you are too modest.” Johnny is drinking again, and Mark has come to see it as one of his habits. A glass of wine, a white smile—these are all things that he associates with Johnny. “You are very bright.”

Mark shrugs. 

Johnny stands suddenly. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

Mark looks up at Johnny, who is offering him his hand. There is a brilliant smile on his face, kind and clear. He looks so _young_.

They take the stairs up into a dark hallway, then another set of stairs, then another. Mark feels winded but Johnny beckons him forward, candle flickering in the drafty corners. They go up and keep going until Mark feels lightheaded, ears popping.

“Here,” Johnny says brightly. He throws open a door and moonlight streams through the opening, falling into a perfect line at Mark’s feet. “This is the highest point in the castle.” He nods his head. “Go. Look.”

Mark hesitates, looking at Johnny before placing his foot into that perfect square of moonlight. One foot, another, and he is walking out of the doorway and onto a balcony drenched in soft silver light. The mountains are laid out beneath him, the whole world suspended in the night like a painting. Mark’s mouth gapes at the sight, at the way everything seems so small from up here, so perfect.

Johnny rests a hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

_ Oh _ , Mark thinks heart aching. _ It is. _

“You have been so tired lately,” Johnny says. “I know you must miss home. I figured you would want to see something other than stone walls for a change.”

Mark turns to look at Johnny, and for a moment love is easy. It is pure, untainted, guileless. Mark cannot blame it for anything. He cannot blame himself for this feeling, as simple and clean as river water. It washes over him, pulling him under, and when he finally emerges he is pure and whole. Clean.

Johnny looks at him, tilting his head. He looks so, so young, not much older than Mark is. 

The moonlight wreathes Johnny in shimmering white and Mark catches himself reaching out, trying to capture that strange light in his open palm. Johnny looks at him with a bemused expression, taking Mark’s hand in his.

“You should rest, dear Mark,” Johnny says, gently draping his jacket around his shoulders. “Sleep well tonight.”

Mark tears his eyes away from Johnny and looks back out over the balcony, at the soft silvery hues of the world below. He lets Johnny guide him back into the darkness of the castle, eyes fixed on the moon. The sight is too soon gone.

…

There is a burning underneath Mark’s skin, something that eats him from the inside out, corroding his veins from the very place they begin and end. His heart has become an unfaithful thing, overruling Mark’s thoughts, his carefully ordered way of life. The mechanisms he uses to keep himself in check are slowly dissolving, unwinding, unmaking themselves in the dark.

Mark takes a deep breath, oxygen rattling in his lungs like it has no place to go. He exhales slowly, his chest falling. He feels like his ribs are going to collapse into his hollow, hollow, chest.

He absolutely does not love Johnny, he tells himself. Whatever he’s feeling is the side-effect of this straining isolation, of his uncertainty in a strange place. It does not fit into the ordered boxes he has pushed his life into, does not belong amongst the logic.

What would Mina say? Something stupid, probably. She’d take it upon herself to become his matchmaker, no matter the consequences. The thought is a warm, humorous one, and it brings a small smile to his face.

What can he even offer a man like Johnny? He has no wealth, no title, nothing but a small house and a sister he would die for. And how old is the man? There is an ageless ambiguity about him, as if his apparent youth blurs his true self.

Mark pushes the thought from his head. He does not love Johnny, and that is that. Love is not logic, it is not law. It does not bind him.

With that small comfort, Mark falls asleep.

…

_ Dear Mark, _

_ Did you get my last letter? Perhaps not. Either way, you haven’t written to me in two weeks! You must be having a grand time without me. Good! Finally you are doing something exciting. _

_ Lia has had three men propose to her. Three! Can’t you at least find  _ _ one _ _ for yourself? Please come home with a fiance, it's getting awful boring around here. _

_ I love you! Stay safe and write to me soon! _

_ Your Dearest Sister, _

_ Mina _

_ … _

His judgment is impaired. His judgment is impaired and he cannot think straight, cannot make sense of the world around him. Right and wrong blur together, logic and insanity, order and disarray.

_ I will be home soon,  _ Mark tells himself as he wakes late the next day, body sore all over.  _ I will be home soon. _

He sits listlessly in the library for hours, a book in his lap that he is not truly reading. He walks the empty hallways wondering where those strange guests have gone. Sometimes he hears laughter. Sometimes sobbing.

Johnny appears at dusk and they eat together, Johnny hands him a glass of wine. He drains it quickly and then stares into the bottom of his glass, wishing he could disappear.

Johnny asks a question about English greeting customs and as Mark is answering he draws very close, peering at him with dark, nighttime eyes.

"You're so young," Johnny purrs, drawing a finger up the line of his throat. "Ah, to have such youth."

Mark stops talking, finds himself holding his breath as he responds. "It is quite fleeting," he responds, voice strained as he feels his throat bob beneath Johnny's fingertips. "But you aren't that old." 

Johnny throws his head back, laughing. "You flatter me, Mark." He leans forward, eyes gleaming. "But that's not true. Some days I feel absolutely  _ ancient. _ "

"You don't look it," Mark responds, and he finds himself struggling with his perception of Johnny. Did he always look so young? Did Johnny glow like this when he first arrived?

"I know." Johnny grins. "Isn't that fun?"

Mark doesn't respond because one second Johnny's hand is around his throat and the next it is resting against his mouth. 

"Would you like to kiss me, Mark?" Johnny asks, his finger brushing his bottom lip.

Mark doesn't know. He isn't sure. There's a deep fog in his mind, chasing away something crucial that he needs to know but doesn't. He feels he would, but he doesn't know what the cost of such an action would be.

"Ah, don't worry about giving me an answer now," Johnny says as he pulls back. "I can wait. I am very, very patient."

Very patient, he says. He is very,  _ very _ patient.

…

Mark stays up half the night thinking, wondering, tossing restlessly in his bed. When he finally falls asleep he dreams of a shadowy figure, of a hand resting on his throat, of a mouth against his. He wakes up late in the morning, bones aching, his chest heaving.

That night, in a moment of weakness, Mark kisses Johnny. It is a brief moment of indecision, a mistake that Mark will regret for the rest of his life, but in that moment it seems logical, reasonable, inevitable.

Mark kisses Johnny, whose hair is dark brown and whose face is unlined and whose mouth is very, very soft against his own. It is a tempting type of poison, one that kills slowly. He does not remember his reservations. He does not remember why he was afraid.

Mark kisses Johnny and the second Johnny kisses him back he begins to have second thoughts. About what, he is not quite sure. He just knows that Johnny kisses like a shark would, sharp and biting, as if he wants to rip Mark’s tongue out of his mouth with his teeth. Mark shivers as Johnny runs his hands up and down his arms, his chest.

“Are you cold?” Johnny asks, pausing. Mark squeezes his eyes shut.

“No. I—” Mark shakes his head. “I’m tired. I’m just tired.”

“Hm,” Johnny says, smoothing hair away from his forehead. “Then you should sleep.”

Sleep. Why is he so tired all the time?

_ Do you sleep well at night? _

_ … _

  
  


_ MARK LEE’S JOURNAL _

_ 15 May. Johnny has been so unbelievably kind to me. It is strange that fate would bring us together in such a way, but it is a happy sort of strange. He is always gone during the day but when he comes back we talk until the early morning. He is very interesting. _

_ All the other people I have seen in the castle seem to have vanished, I visited that tower room but there was nothing there at all—not even a crate. Perhaps they left. _

_ I often get a strange feeling that I cannot explain...as if someone is trying to tell me something.  _

_ … _

Johnny is attentive. He asks about Mark’s sister, asks how he’s feeling, asks about his day. Sometimes he takes Mark into his arms and holds him until he falls asleep. The strange thing about that is the fact that Johnny is never there when he wakes up.

The days pass faster than ever, and as Mark helps Johnny with all his questions he realizes that his excitement to go home has dulled. He still does, of course, but it is as if something is calling him to stay here. Beckoning.

“I cannot wait to see England,” Johnny says one evening over a glass of wine. “You speak highly of it.”

“It is my home. Of course I do.”

“I think I would like to see it with you, first.” Johnny sips from his wine glass. “If you would permit me.”

Mark watches him stand, placing his glass gently on the table. “Of course,” he whispers. “Of course.”

Johnny smiles, and in that moment Mark would give him anything. The world goes a little hazy at the edges as Johnny steps closer, his vision focusing and unfocusing.

_ Would you walk into a den of snakes and then compliment them on their courtesy?  _ Chungha’s voice murmurs from the corners of his mind.  _ They are still snakes. _

Mark blinks and realizes Johnny is incredibly close, his hand hovering above his collarbone. Mark looks up at him, eyes wide.

“I could’ve sworn you were standing over there,” Mark says slowly. “I could’ve sworn…”

“You must be tired,” Johnny says smoothly, pulling a piece of dust off Mark’s shirt. “Rest, dear Mark. You are safe.”

Mark blinks again, standing clumsily. “I’m going to go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow, Johnny.”

“Of course,” Johnny says. He gives Mark a small, tense smile. “Sleep well.”

Mark practically falls into bed, limbs shaking. What is wrong with him? What is happening?

He falls asleep, unaware that he is being watched.

…

When did love become obsession? When did it become fear? When did it become whatever  _ this  _ is, this unhappy sensation of being monitored?

There are gaps in Mark’s memory now, moments that he cannot recall no matter how hard he tries. Johnny standing in one place and then suddenly another, Mark ending up places he does not remember going.

Last night he was in bed. When he woke up, he was in the library. He does not know how he got there, but he does know the way his body had hurt, weak and sore. There are bruises on his hands, his arms. The evidence does not add up—he cannot make sense of the clues.

Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.

…

“Where are you going, dear Mark?”

Mark presses a hand to his forehead. “I just need some fresh air. I have this...this awful headache. I apologize.”

“Let me walk with you,” Johnny offers, standing. He places the book in his hand on the table. “I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

“It’s fine, honestly—”

“I insist.” Johnny’s smile is lethal and he extends his hand to Mark, palm up and open, the very picture of honesty. Mark stares at him, gingerly taking his hand. Johnny’s fingers are strong.

They stand on a balcony and stare at the waning moon, Johnny rubbing soothing circles into his back. It is a comforting touch but Mark still feels tense, caged in his own body.

It is too late that Mark realizes that he is not a guest in his place. He is a prisoner.

...

Mark lies in bed the next morning, the sheets tangling his legs so that he can barely move them. He stares up at the ceiling, willing his limbs to move. He feels stiff all over, as if he has run miles uphill or swam the entire ocean. He coughs, pushing the sheets aside and slowly rolling out of bed.

He pulls the curtains open and winces against the sudden brightness of the sun. It hurts, he realizes. It actually  _ hurts _ .

He gets dressed, does all the things he would usually do in the morning, and then spends the day wandering around the castle. He has no purpose or aim, just a desire to work the stiffness out of his joints. He feels much better after moving for a little, his muscles warming up.

He is standing at the intersection of two hallways when he hears the rustling of fabric somewhere behind him, satin on stone. He turns to see the edge of a green piece of fabric disappear around the corner.

“Chungha?” His voice is hoarse. “Is that you?”

There is no response, just the rustle of fabric in the hall. Mark chases after it, following the sound.

“Chungha?” he peers around another corner. “Hello?”

No response. He hears footsteps and keeps following them, down one set of stairs and then another, down a long, dark hallway. It feels eerily familiar.

There are no lights on the walls, but as he stumbles through the dark he sees a lamp resting on the floor ahead.

Foostetsp. Fabric rustling. A soft, insistent tapping, as of a foot on the floor. Mark rounds the corner with the lamp held high.

“Chungha…?”

There is nothing in front of him but a closed door, the wood warped with age. The handle has a loving shine to it, as if this door has been opened many times before. 

He pushes the door and watches it sway open without even a creak. The soundlessness of the old wood frightens him in some way he cannot understand.

The room seems to be cut out of solid stone, and as Mark steps forward his foot crunches on something that feels like panes of glass. He looks down and finds that the floor is littered with gold coins, jeweled necklaces, riches that seem ancient and untouched. He fishes a single coin out of the dense carpet of gold and traces his thumb over the engraving. It’s too dark to make out any words or images, and the lamplight only casts a hazy glow that puts most of the inscription in shadow. He gently drops the coin back onto the floor.

There is a large box in the center of the room. Mark holds up the lamp and sees carved figures all along the sides, raised carvings of men with swords and crowns, slashing at each other, dying along the bottom. Something about it makes his stomach churn, and the little voice in his head urges him to turn away, go back down the hall and up the stairs, away from this place. There is something sinister and sacred about the darkness. Almost holy. Something to be revered.

He goes closer, lamp swaying in his hand, and sees that the heavy stone slab resting on the top of the box is cracked down the middle. He realizes, too late, that this is not a box. It is a coffin.

There are only the faintest traces of courage in his liquid bones as he raises the lamp over the stone slab. The weak light shines through the crack and onto the body inside, giving only the faintest impression of a face.

Not a skeleton. There should be a skeleton, something dead and decaying, but there isn’t.

“Johnny…?” Mark whispers, the name pulling itself from him like a thread. “What…”

The body in the stone coffin is none other than his esteemed host. His esteemed host, pale as paper with a mouth that looks like an open wound. Mark stumbles away from the sight, hurried footsteps causing the coins beneath his feet to slide and clink together.

Johnny’s eyes snap open, hands coming up into the crack to push the cracked halves of the slab away. They hit the ground with a heavy, shattering thud, the sound loud enough to make Mark fear the collapse of the mountain.

Johnny sits up, stretching, his movements catlike and graceful. All Mark can do is stand rooted to the spot, lamp in his hand, fire growing lower and lower. Johnny smiles gently at him, his eyes the color of poison wine. His red, stained mouth stretches over his teeth.

“How nice of you to wake me,” Johnny says, his voice like a knife twisting into his ribs. His smile is uncannily sharp.

Mark drops the lamp and the weak light disappears. He turns and fumbles with the door, pulling it open and racing out into the pitch-black hallway. There is no light, no hint of sun or flame in this dark and cursed place, and Mark is only human. He cannot see in the dark.

He blindly runs down the stairs and flings open one door, then another, but each hallway branches into two more, three more, four more. All the stone walls look alike, the floor exactly the same every time, everything merging together in the deep dark of the castle. 

“Why are you running?”

Mark hears Johnny’s voice echo down the hallway, bouncing off the walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. He turns down another hallway into the descending black, nauseous. He is running without a goal, without any idea of where he is or where he’s going. His hand brushes the wall, following its curve.

“You’ll get lost down here if you aren’t careful, Mark,” Johnny scolds, his voice gently chastising. “Do you know where you’re going?”

Mark doesn’t say anything. He just keeps going, around and around, down one corridor and into another, desperately trying to get away or lose Johnny in the halls. He veers around a corner, hand reaching out into the black, and hits something solid.

Mark looks up and stumbles backward but not before Johnny wraps a hand around his arm, holding him in place. His hand is cold as death.

“There you are,” Johnny says, his voice a low, slinking caress. “You’re very lucky I found you. You can get lost down here, you know.” His crimson eyes seem to glow as he talks, and as Mark watches his lips spread into a wide, white-toothed smile. Sharp. Too sharp.

“No,” Mark gasps as he tries to pull his arm back. He can feel his heart beating in his mouth, tears pricking at his eyes. “No, no, no—”

“Did you know these walls are solid stone?” Johnny purrs. His eyes gleam. “Soundproof.”

Johnny grins and leans forward, and Mark screams. And screams. And screams.

…

Mark wants to believe that maybe he is just having a nightmare, but that is not possible. 

The world comes back to him slowly, painfully, his vision going from blurred black to something almost terribly clear. His body hurts, every muscle sore from the inside out, and there is a weakness in his hands and feet and chest. He tries to stretch his fingers but they shake with the effort. He feels a lingering sort of emptiness, hands and wrists bruised.

The stone floor digs into his skin and presses against his ribs in the most painful way, but he cannot move away. He places his palms flat on the ground and tries to push himself up, head swimming with the effort. Something moves out of the corner of his eye, dark and fluid.

“Please,” Mark says, the words dying in his throat. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Johnny looks down at him tilting his head. “I am not hurting you,” he says, words slick like oil. “Truly, you brought this upon yourself.”

“I want to go home,” Mark murmurs, trying to push himself up off the floor. The stone is rough against his cheek. The stone is wet beneath his cheek. “I want to go  _ home.” _

“Soon,” Johnny murmurs, kneeling down to place his hand on Mark’s head. Mark is struck by how young he looks, how gently he speaks, how different he is from the wizened old man Mark first met. It is unnatural. It is wholly and terribly unnatural. “But you have work to do.”

Mark squeezes his eyes shut, and when he inhales every breath is like a shard of glass running down his lungs. He feels Johnny’s hands under his arms, lifting him up like a doll. A toy, meant to be played with and discarded by a careless child. He falls against Johnny’s chest, cheek resting right above the place where a heart would normally beat. There is no beating—just the jarring presence of silence.

“Sh,” Johnny says, placing Mark into a chair. “Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you, see?”

He places a small, faded photograph on the table in front of him. It is a beautiful girl, one whose name Mark can barely dredge up from the fog in his mind.

“Mina,” he rasps. He wants to take the photo in his hand but he doesn’t even have the strength to reach out to it.

“You want to go home to her, don’t you? Your little sister? I know you love her very much.”

Mark looks up at Johnny, whose smile seems to grow as sharp as knives. He feels something cold in his chest, a solid lump of ice that refuses to melt.

“Three letters,” Johnny says. “One saying that you have almost finished your work here, another saying it is done, and a third saying you are traveling home the long way because of bad weather.”

He places several pieces of paper in front of him and a small pot of ink. He smiles encouragingly at Mark, lifting one of his hands and placing it on the table. Mark hates it. He hates  _ him,  _ despises Johnny with every fiber of who he is or once was.

Mark’s stomach curdles. And to believe he once thought he loved him.

Mark takes several deep breaths and trembles as he reaches for the paper sitting in front of him. Three letters. Three letters that will ultimately read like his epitaph.

"What…" Mark takes a deep breath, his vision swimming in and out of focus. "Dates?"

Johnny smiles at him. "The first should be dated June 12th," he says. "The second the 19th. And the last…." Johnny purses his lips for a second. "June 29th."

A month. Mark has a month left to live.

"And what if I don't?" Mark mumbles, lips going numb. "What if I don't write them?"

"Oh, Mark," Johnny says, sighing. He brushes a strand of loose hair behind Mark's ear. "Do you think you have a choice?"

Mark fumbles with the pen and ink in front of him, hands shaking. Ink splatters against the paper from the stuttering, halting movement of his hand.

_ Dearest Mina… _

_ … _

_ Dear Mark, _

_ It has been so long since you have last written, and I worry for you. I hope that you are safe and that your travels lead you home soon. I have not received a letter from you in almost a month, but I hope that this one finds you well. I miss you every day. _

_ Your Dearest Sister, _

_ Mina _

_ Dear Mark, _

_ I am worried. It has been almost two months. Are you well? _

_ Dear Mark, _

_ I received a letter from you yesterday but you sound uncharacteristically bleak. Is everything alright? You say you are finishing your work. _

_ Dear Mark, _

_ Where are you? _

_ Dear Mark, _

_ Come home, big brother. I miss you. _

_ Lovingly, _

_ Mina _

_ My dearest Mina, _

_ It is very cold here, and you have no idea how much I long for the warmth of home. I hope I shall be back soon. I am nearly done with my work for the Count and cannot wait to be with you once more. _

_ Love, _

_ Mark _

…

The door Chungha showed him all those weeks ago no longer exists. Instead, it has been bricked up completely.

Mark beats at the bricks until his palms hurt, until they are scratched and bleeding, but nothing happens. He has no place to go. There is nothing he can do.

Johnny has removed all paper and pens from Mark’s reach, removing everything from his room that could be used to travel. His coat, his bag, his papers. The only thing Mark truly has now is his picture of Mina and his journal, tucked under the bed. The only thing he truly has now is his own life, and he finds that even that is slipping away.

He’s tired. He’s so, so tired.

...

Mark stands in front of his window, trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes strain against the light and he notices a small, dark mark on the side of his neck. He presses on it gently, hissing at the way it burns. A bruise.

He pulls his shirt on, struggling to lift his arms over his head.

The day is much too short. By the time he wakes it is already past noon, and it takes much longer to shake the weariness out of his body. It is too difficult to become fully awake.

He runs down the stairs and into the library, yanking the curtains open. Clouds of dust billow into the air and Mark grabs a book off the shelf, opening it to the very back until he finds a blank page. He tears it out and scrambles for a pen, practically overturning the desk.

_ Dear Mina,  _

_ I do not know when I can come home, the Count is holding me captive in his castle if you receive this please tell the police please tell someone please I am afraid he is going to _

Mark feels the paper slide out of his hands, his pen dragging across the paper. A thick black line follows, the scraping sound of ink and paper continuing as Johnny slowly pulls it across the table towards him.

“Are you writing to your sister?” Johnny asks. He reads the letter calmly, tilting his head. “I adore your dedication. Mina is so lucky to have such a hard-working big brother.”

Mark can feel himself shaking, ink dotting his hands and fingers, his heart pounding so loudly that he can feel it beneath his skin. He watches Johnny place the letter back on the table and slide it back towards him, paper rasping dryly along the wood. The splattered line of black ink is stark against the emptiness, and as Mark pulls it back towards himself he feels his fingers tremble.

“Go ahead,” Johnny says. He smiles. “I won't stop you.”

Mark looks at the paper, at his own messy, desperate handwriting, at the way his words blur together. The ink bleeds through the paper, black as night and Johnny’s eyes. Mark pics up his pen. Touches it to the paper.

“Go ahead, Mark.” Johnny leans forward. “Write. Family is important.”

Mark feels his spine go rigid. He presses his pen to the paper, willing his hand to move, willing words to appear, but all that he manages to do is create a large blob of ink right at the tip of his pen. He can't move his hand, can't even feel his fingers.

“Write, Mark.” 

Johnny’s eyes are as black as the depths of the sea, as the very pits of hell.

Mark shakes, eyes pricking with tears. “Why are you doing this to me?” he cries out. “ _ Why? _ ”

Johnny reaches out, gently caressing Mark’s cheek with fingers that feel frozen to the core. He tucks loose hair behind Mark’s ear and then wipes away a tear running wild down his face.

“Darling,” Johnny says softly. “Dear, darling Mark. Do you think I am punishing you? Being cruel?”

Mark cannot answer. He cannot bear to speak. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels Johnny’s hand move away.

“You can leave,” Johnny says. “I won’t stop you. But how far do you think it is from here to the nearest town? Would you even know the way?”

Mark opens his eyes and Johnny is kneeling on the table above him, looking down at him like he is a bug. “You’ll die within a day, dearest. You have no chance out there. Wouldn't you agree it’s safer here? A place where you have food, shelter, a warm bed to sleep in?”

Mark’s mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. His mind is filled with a heavy, omnipresent fog. “I’m so cold.”

“Poor thing.” Johnny jumps off the table. “Would you like to sit closer to the fire?”

Mark nods numbly. His hands and feet feel frozen. 

Johnny grabs his arm and pulls him upright. They walk towards the fireplace together, the flames growing hotter with every step. Mark closes his eyes, basking in the crackling warmth.

He’s still cold, though. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being cold.

“Would you like to sit here?” Johnny asks, gently letting go of Mark’s arm as he sits cross-legged on the rug. He drapes a thick blanket over Mark’s shoulders, his hands warm through the fabric. Mark shivers.

What was he thinking about before? What was he doing? He thinks he was writing something…to Mina? Maybe to the law firm....he has so much work to do…

“Rest a little,” Johnny says soothingly. “I’ll be back soon.”

The fire is big and bright. It’s red and orange, the colors intertwining into themselves, the fire licking at the stone of the fireplace as if it knows that there is a whole world out there for it to consume. It’s untameable, uncageable, totally wild. 

Beautiful. Mark stares at it, but the fire is heartless. It does not respond.

…

_ You are going to have to kill him, Mark. _

Mark absentmindedly chews on the end of the only pen he has, kept carefully hidden beneath his bed.

How. He has never been a killer, always too soft for violence. He’s grown weaker than he has ever known—he can feel it day by day, the energy draining from him as if through a sieve. There are no mirrors but Mark can feel the bruises littering his neck, can see the ones on his arms and hands. 

He has indebted himself to the Devil himself, is now living in one of the circles of hell raised to the level of the living.

_ Dragul meu. You can be stronger, dragul meu. _

How. _How._

Mark buries his face in his hands, and for the first time in a long time, cries.

…

Johnny sits across from him at dinner, calmly paging through some papers. He looks at Mark, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t you hungry, dear Mark? You must keep up your strength.”

Mark exhales sharply, a dry type of humor lining his throat. His strength.

He looks at the silverware on the table: fork, spoon, knife. They glitter in the firelight. “Why do you want to go to England?”

Johnny folds the papers in front of him. “Well, it’s quite simple. I want England for the  _ people _ .”

“The people.” Mark shakes his head. Fork, spoon, knife. “So you can do to them what you’ve done to me.”

“Imagine it,” Johnny says softly, eyes glittering with happiness. “All those people. All those modern, wonderful people. People who live by science and law and reason. They don’t know who I am. They have no _ fear _ .”

“They’ll just be easy prey.” Fork, spoon, knife. “Their lives handed to you on a platter.”

“You’re very right, dear Mark.” Johnny examines the edges of his sleeves. “They will never even know who walks among them.”

“You’re going to kill people.”

“Of course I am.” Johnny runs his tongue over his teeth. “That’s the whole _ point _ .”

Fork, spoon, knife.

Johnny stands, hand drifting along the table as he walks toward Mark. He places a hand on his head. 

Fork, spoon,  _ knife. _

Mark grabs the knife and slashes at Johnny with all his strength. He hears a disappointed sigh as Johnny grabs his wrist, twisting. The knife clatters to the stone floor.

Johnny pulls his arm until he is stumbling out of his chair and to his feet. It is a strange sort of embrace that he pulls him into, as if they are about to dance. Mark pushes against him, but the other man does not even move.

“Let me go,” Mark says, voice low and desperate. “I want to go  _ home _ .”

“Oh, Mark,” Johnny says, holding him in his arms. “You don’t get to go home.”

The world blurs for a moment and this time Mark notices the gap—one second he is standing in the dining room and the next he is in his room, Johnny’s arms still around him. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Please,” Mark says, shutting his eyes. He hates the sound of his voice begging for his own life but all he can think of is Mina, and what will happen to her if he is not there. Who is going to keep her safe? Who is going to tell her the truth? “Please, I won’t tell anyone. I’ll be quiet, I’ll—”

“You aren’t a very good liar, Mark.”

“Let me go,” Mark says, voice low. “You want the truth? You’re a  _ beast _ . An abomination, unnatural, horrid, disgusting creature—”

“Such profanities do not suit you,” Johnny says calmly, clamping his hand over Mark’s mouth. “I was under the impression that you Englishmen valued respect. Maybe I was wrong.”

Mark screams against Johnny’s palm, struggling in his arms. The sun is just outside the window, mocking Mark as they stand in the shadows. He can't even reach it. He can’t even feel it on his skin.

“Imagine,” Johnny says calmly, adjusting his grip so that Mark can scarcely even move his arms or wrists. “Imagine living forever. I can do that, Mark. I can do that  _ for you _ . We can go to England together and run wild in the streets, untouched by disease and death. Wouldn’t you want that?”

Mark stops screaming and goes limp, lungs aching. Johnny removes his hand and he takes in large gulps of air. His mouth feels sore.

“I would rather you killed me,” Mark says, eyes fixed on the rapidly setting sun. “I would rather die than go anywhere with you. I would rather cut my own throat than be your prisoner.”

Johnny tilts his head, giving him an oddly sympathetic look. “Greater men than you have killed for the opportunity I am giving you.”

“I do not  _ care _ ,” Mark spits. 

Johnny releases him. “Think about it, dear Mark. Maybe you’ll reconsider by this time tomorrow.”

Johnny leaves the room and slams the door behind him, Mark just a moment too slow to follow. He beats his palms against the carved wood and falls to his knees.

The sun beats down, serene and untouched by horror, and Mark watches it set along the jagged, vicious line of the mountains. 

…

_ MARK LEE’S JOURNAL _

_ 28 June: If, in the event that this journal is found after my very likely death, I do not want my sister to read it. I want it kept away from her, given to those that will make the most of it. I sound like a madman, I know this, but I cannot hide the truth.  _

_ The Count should not be allowed to set foot on English soil. If he does he must be removed immediately, in whatever way necessary. Kill him. It is the only thing that will stop him. Burn him. Pound him into dust. I am not the first person he has imprisoned like this—if he is allowed to roam free, I will not be the last. _

_ Tell Mina I love her. My sister, my partner in crime, my blood and heart—I pray you never know the horrors I have known. _

_ Love, _

_ Mark Lee _

_ … _

He can do nothing in the night time. He can do nothing except wait for the sun to rise again, high in the sky.

He lies awake all night, not daring to sleep, afraid of what lies beyond the door, beyond the walls. He leaves the curtain open and watches the moon rise and fall in the ink and velvet sky. He does not move until the sun begins its climb into the heavens.

The sun comes up. Mark looks around the room frantically, searching for a way out. He runs to the window, throwing it open. The ground is hundreds of yards down, and he knows he cannot climb sheer stone. He turns around to stare at the door. 

The room is just as ornately decorated as it was when he arrived. It will be his grave, his mausoleum, his final resting place.

The world outside the window is unattainable, a promise of a future that Mark will not see if he doesn’t use his brain and think.

No mirrors. No glass. He doesn’t have anything that could pry the door open. 

He stares at the door. A soft, almost nonexistent tapping comes from the other side. Mark backs up until his back is pressed against the wall, watching the doorknob turn slightly.

_ I am not going to die here, _ Mark thinks to himself, the words echoing throughout his head.  _ I am not going to die here. _

“I am not going to die here,” Mark hisses. He grabs the porcelain washbowl off its stand and holds it over his head. He stills for a moment and then slams it onto the ground, his arms aching. It shatters into several large pieces, the sound like a miniature crash of thunder. He falls to his knees and grabs the sharpest piece, holding it in front of him. 

The doorknob turns again and then the door clicks open, sliding just a crack. A soft whoosh of air rushes into the room and Mark scrambles to his feet, clutching his shard of porcelain in front of him.

Nothing happens. He waits, hands utterly still. Nothing happens.

“I am not going to die here,” Mark whispers to himself. He steps forward slowly and slams the door open, thrusting his piece of porcelain outwards. There is no one there.

He looks out in the hallway: there is no one there. Mark turns and sees the end of a skirt vanish around the corner.

“Chungha!” Mark yells, running towards her. He rounds the corner and sees her standing there, back turned to him. The edge of her skirt is caked with fresh mud. Her hair is tangled all in knots.

Mark pauses several feet away, footsteps slowing. “Chungha?”

Her shoulders stiffen as she turns around, pulling her hair over her shoulder. Her back is straight, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her mouth is completely covered in blood, lips cut and bleeding. Angry slashes surround her mouth, giving her the gruesome appearance of a skeleton.

Mark rushes forward. “What happened to you? Did Johnny do this to you? Let me help—”

Chungha holds up her hand, and her eyes are as hard as steel. She places a hand on her throat and then shakes her head. Mark frowns at her and she squeezes her eyes shut as she opens her mouth. It is red and inflamed, her gums bleeding down her teeth and onto—

Not onto her tongue. Onto where her tongue  _ should be _ .

“Oh my God,” Mark whispers. Chungha flinches at the words. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Chungha shakes her head, as if to say  _ this was not you, dragul meu,  _ and then gently takes his hand. She turns him around and then gently pushes him forward.

Her dark eyes speak. They tell him to go home.

Mark looks over his shoulder as he runs down the staircase, down the hallways, towards the doors. The path is clear for him and he  _ knows  _ the way like he never did before. Chungha watches him from above, quiet and unmoving. She raises one hand in a solemn wave.

He pushes open the doors and sees a carriage there, the horses waiting. They eye him warily but do not complain as he takes the reins. He looks behind him one last time to see Chungha’s shadow disappearing in the darkness, a trapped phantom.

The morning air tastes like freedom. Mark pulls the reins and chases that freedom over the mountains, far, far away.

…

_ Mina— _

_ I will be home soon. I am heading out of Transylvania on a ship and cannot wait to see you. I love you so very much. _

_ Your big brother, _

_ Mark _

…

“Mark, won't you please go out? There are some very nice people who would love to meet you, I'm sure.”

Mark smiles at his sister. “I’m too busy for such things. Why don’t you go out? Go spend some time with Lia.”

“My dear, boring brother,” Mina says, pinching his cheek. “Every time I suggest you go out you say I should go out instead. Am I annoying? Is that what it is?”

"Of course not,” Mark says. “In fact,” he grabs Mina’s shoulder and puts her in a friendly headlock. “I love you so much that I must  _ force _ you to be away from me.”

“Lame,” Mina grumbles, trying to work her head out from beneath Mark’s arm. “You’re just boring.”

“Unfortunately,” Mark says, looking over some paperwork. “I guess I’m depriving many strangers from the pleasure of making my acquaintance.”

The pain begins to go away, over time. Painful memories become just ripples in the water, small currents in the ocean. He avoids them with skill, even as they seek to drag him under.

Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night, heart hammering as his body remembers a touch, a pain, an old disquieting fear. Sometimes he can see Chungha’s ruined mouth or Johnny’s uncanny eyes, sometimes he sees his own blood running down his fingers.

Mina is always asking him what’s wrong, but he can never tell her. Some things you just cannot share, especially with the people you love.

He watches Mina kick around the room, huffing. She gives him a glare as she plops down on the couch, her skirt fluffing into a cloud. He smiles to himself when she looks away.

_ My dear sister _ , he thinks.  _ You could never understand _ .

“Alright,” Mina says, sitting up. “How about this: tomorrow we go out into town for a whole day. You buy me candy and don’t do any work.”

“What’s in it for me?” Mark asks, resting his head on his hand. Mina holds up three fingers.

“One: you get to hang out with me. Two: you get to buy me candy. Three: you don’t have to work.” She pushes each finger down. “I think that’s a pretty good deal.”

“Okay, you pushy rascal.” Mark straightens the documents on his desk. “Tomorrow. You have to get up early, though.”

“Early?” Mina exclaims. “What for??”

“So you can experience an early morning for once,” Mark says calmly. “I might even buy you a biscuit from the morning vendors.”

That seals it. “Okay,  _ dearest brother _ . It’s a date!”

…

Some wounds do not heal. Some wounds heal but never vanish. Some vanish but never heal.

Mark prods at the soft, red mark on his throat. It's scarred completely but is still there, an ugly reminder of a horror Mark does his best not to relive.

Mina went to bed hours before, complaining when Mark went to wish her goodnight. (“Goodness, Mark, I’m not a  _ toddler  _ anymore!”) Mark never listens, and gives her a goodnight kiss on the forehead. She used to be so little. When did she grow up?

Mark sighs, releasing something heavy in his chest, He turns to his bed, meticulously made, and pulls back the covers. Tomorrow he’ll get up early and bring Mina to the park, and he has to make sure she brings a coat because it's always chilly in the mornings, and—

Someone screams. Mark stills in the process of grabbing his pillow and feels his heart drop like a stone down to the floor. His heart beats once. Twice.

Someone screams again, the sound ringing off the walls.

“Mina!” Mark yells, running out of his room. His hand hits the wall as he spins around, pushing her door open. His head feels weightless, his own fear making him nauseous. “ _ Mina! _ ”

There is a man standing over Mina’s bed, looking at her as she stands against the far wall with a candlestick in her hand. Mark's tongue feels like lead in his mouth, and the mark on his neck burns. His vision blurs red.

“Mark, darling!” Johnny says smoothly. “Is this your sister?”

Mina looks frantically at Mark as Johnny straightens up, eyes locked on him. Mark feels like a bug beneath glass, pinned in more ways than one, already dead. Johnny smiles, and the expression sends chills up and down Mark’s ribs. 

“Finally,” he says. “I’ve been  _ dying _ to meet her.”  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> speed the parting guest...I guess  
> [the cut that bleeds](url)
> 
> hmu!  
> [twt](https://twitter.com/nastaeyong)  
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/nastaeyong)


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